


4 A.M.

by DLasagne



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Ish?? - Freeform, Late Nights, Other, Sad Fluff, a possible sequel is in the works, gender neutral reader, how even tag, idfk just read you might like, life is about trying new things, romantic, so keep your eyes peeled, someone help pls, sounds cracky but hey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 11:31:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11230047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DLasagne/pseuds/DLasagne
Summary: It was never the apple juice that you were after in those small, dark hours.





	4 A.M.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MayorOfCanTown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayorOfCanTown/gifts).



> I really have no fucking idea what I'm doing. first fic, obvs, and one that's long overdue. Much thanks to MayorOfCanTown for the advice on rich text editing and general patience, he's a wonderful person who I love. Ya'll can listen to this song if you like, gave me the inspiration to write this, as well as the general mood. also yes, I fuck up the past and present tenses a bunch. I apologize, I am terribly rusty. as well as terrible.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EG6g8WPB3cE

     It would always be in those dim, ungodly hours, on the threshold of dawn and dark. You'd rise shakily to your feet, blinking at the burning bleariness in your eyes, wondering if anyone else was awake yet. Stumbling, trying to be as quiet as possible, you'd make your way to the kitchen. And he'd always be sitting there. Still wearing his shades, not a single light on save the small nightlight plugged in under the microwave, a glass of apple juice on the table in front of him, between his elbows propping himself up. He'd take small sips, nonchalant, although you could see that little ghost of a smile on his face. No matter how quiet you tried to be, he'd always know you were there.

     "Hey." Your voice raspy and tired, you'd respond likewise. Initial pleasantries aside, you'd pull a chair out, usually the one just across. You'd sit, silent for a moment, only the ticking of the clock and Dave's barely-audible sips registering in your ears. It was really a miracle you could hear him, but the two of you were always quiet. In a minute or two, he'd softly clear his throat, your eyes lifting to meet his shades. He tipped the glass to you, a silent offer. You'd smile, nod.

     He got up, with a small grunt, murmuring something about his aching knees and ungrateful whippersnappers, which always prompted a small huff of a giggle from you. The cupboard door opens with a whisper, the tiniest _clink_  of a glass being removed, the same soft whisper as the cupboard door shuts, _tmp._ The fridge door opens, the tiny hum and the yellow light spilling into the room. You wince, a microscopic movement but he still notices, ruffles the fringe of your hair. He retrieves the bottle from its frosty solitude, shut the fridge door, yellow light slipping away, hum dying down. He'd set it down on the table, plain plastic bottle, some colorful label that you can't read in the dim light.

     Resuming his spot across from you, he'd slide the glass your way, like a bartender in an old western. Unscrewing the cap, tipping the bottle, vaguely golden fruit juice slipping through the nozzle (neck? Fuck, you never knew what to call it), filling your glass. He'd screw the cap back on, leaving it on the table in case you wanted more. Then, the part you'd like best, when he would lift his glass in the air, silently proffering it to you, and you'd always smile fondly, lifting your glass to meet his, a gentle  _clink_. Then you'd both sip slowly, savoring.

     And so it went. This was yours, your own little tradition, just the two of you, sipping apple juice in a quiet kitchen, when it was so late, it was impossible to tell between day and night. As it went on, you'd slowly notice other things. Like Dave's hair, growing shaggier and curling at the nape of his neck, the dusting of light blonde hairs on his forearms, the delicate play of muscle under his skin, the timbre of his voice and traces of his accent.

     Other small, familiar touches began to show up soon. You'd pull up the chair next to his, instead of across, shoulder to shoulder in companionable silence. The first time you did it, you mumbled some form of query (you were too tired later to remember what), and he'd responded with a small quirk at the corner of his lips (his wide, full lips, another detail you'd noticed), silently pulling out the chair next to his, patting the seat. Sometimes, he'd rest his arm across your shoulders, and you could feel the lean muscle, the warmth of his body. You'd never noticed how chilly it was in the kitchen before that.

     On one occasion, when the two of you were exchanging your usual toast, he slipped his shades down his nose, giving you a playful wink. His scarlet eyes caught yours and held them, and you saw all the little details you'd been missing. His dark circles reflecting yours, the long, delicate wisps of his eyelashes, and his eyes, crimson and full of tender warmth. You won't be able to recall setting your glass down, but you just knew that suddenly, his arms were wrapped around you, your hands slipping through that scruffy scraggly hair at the base of his neck, and oh, his face was really close to yours, and you could feel his breath on your nose, wasn't that a funny sensation, and you could smell the sweetness of his breath.

     When his lips met yours for the first time, it was faltering and unsure, feather-light. His shades were still perched precariously on his nose, and you could see the hesitancy in those beautiful eyes. With the gentlest of movements, you slipped them off his nose, setting them carefully down on the table, and stroked his cheek, feeling the wispy, crispy hair of his blonde sideburns, and pressed your lips to his once more. You were so unsure of yourself, but you placed your trust in him. His tongue licked gently at your lower lip, and shakily your lips parted, and the taste, the sweet taste and the slightest mustiness of morning breath, but it was almost like nectar, the two of you, sharing and savoring. You drank him in, the strong arms embracing you, long fingers and warm palms caressing your back, his hair under your fingertips, the smell of stale cologne, and your cheeks must have been nearly as red as his eyes, so warm, burning under his touch, his tender attention.

     The rest of that night (or morning) is a haze. You didn't have sex, you'd remember something that momentous. You think you'd laid together in your bed, fully clothed, nestled together, breathing together, watching as the small, faint light on the horizon gradually grew stronger. You were the small spoon. You didn't think you'd ever felt so comfortable in your life, like it was exactly where you were meant to be, and his drawl, soft and gruff from lack of sleep, that Texan twang, whispering sweet nothings into the back of your hair, until you slipped away.

     You woke up alone. Dave was nowhere to be found. You asked around, no one had seen him. All day long, those sweet, stale memories haunted you, and drifting between sleep and wakefulness, you could almost fool yourself into thinking you'd heard his voice, heard that fond chuckle, and maybe that bit of blond hair slipping around the corner was him. You saw him everywhere, and he was nowhere.

     You wondered if you'd dreamt it all up.

     4 A.M. and your alarm went off. It was an accident, a happy coincidence the first time you'd staggered into the kitchen, but the next night, and every night after, you'd wake up, set an alarm, just for this. You'd loved it. You think that maybe you loved him. The kitchen was silent and empty when you shuffled in on sock-feet, all the chairs pushed in neatly at the bare table, cupboards shut, fridge shut, night light burning dimly under the microwave. You went through the motions without a word.

     The cupboard door opens with a whisper, the tiniest _clink_  of a glass being removed, the same soft whisper as the cupboard door shuts, _tmp._ The fridge door opens, the tiny hum and the yellow light spilling into the room. You wince, a microscopic movement, and no one is there to notice it. You retrieve the bottle from its frosty solitude (nearly empty, a distant observation in your head), shut the fridge door, yellow light slipping away, hum dying down. You set it down on the table, plain plastic bottle, some colorful label that you can't read through the warm tears blurring your vision.

     You pour yourself a glass, swallowing the syrupy liquid, wishing you could swallow your tears so successfully. Doesn't work, you can still taste the bitterness, the saltiness. You drink more, not small sips, but large gulps, trying so desperately to hold on to something slipping away, like the yellow light of the fridge, leaving the room dim and dismal, like the apple juice slipping down your throat. Eventually, the juice is nearly gone, just a bit near the bottom. You screw the cap back on, leaving it on the table in case Dave wants some.

     When you wake up in the morning, and make your way back into the kitchen, the bottle is still there, untouched. The juice is lukewarm.


End file.
